


Now Trending!

by PaperAnn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Doctor Dean Winchester, Fluff, Happy Ending, Inappropriate Humor, Jo Harvelle and Dean Winchester are Siblings, Journalist Castiel (Supernatural), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romantic Comedy, Slow Romance, Smut, Social Media, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, viral videos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperAnn/pseuds/PaperAnn
Summary: When journalist Castiel Krushnic goes to a Dodgers game with his actor boyfriend, his man bun, and his bros, the last thing he expects is a scoreboard proposal. Saying no isn't the hard part—they've only been dating for five months, and the fool can’t even spell his name correctly! The hard part is the silence after shocking a stadium full of disappointed fans…At the game with his family, Dean Winchester comes to Cas’ rescue and rushes him away from a camera crew. He’s even there for him when the video goes viral, when Cas’ social media blows up—in a bad way—doing his best to assist with damage control.Cas knows the wilds of LA (he‘s part of it) so there’s no way a handsome, up-and-coming doctor like Dean is looking for anything serious. That doesn’t mean they can’t embarks on an epic rebound as Cas gets his life back on track—right?As time goes on, their glorified hookups start breaking every rule in the book—it wasn’t supposed to happen! One of them needs to be smart enough to speak up, to slow them down, if not end it completely before they’re too far gone…if that line hasn’t been crossed already.





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**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I need to send thanks where it's due and add a Big Ol' Disclaimer to this fic.
> 
> The summary, inspiration and intention writing this story was to participate in the [Destiel Harlequin Challenge](https://destielharlequinchallenge.tumblr.com/), but I wasn't able to finish on time. Maybe I was a little _too_ inspired (as you'll soon see, the plot and length kinda exploded on me) and when the posting dates rolled around, the timing couldn't have been worse as my life kinda plunged into chaos—I wasn't able to pull it off.
> 
> While I'm incredibly bummed out I didn't make the deadline this year, I am over the moon this challenge is back! The mods were amazing and understanding, so getting to the bottom line: no, this fic isn't apart of the DHC, but they deserve full credit for its creation <3
> 
> I cannot thank my MVP [Chi](https://chiwalker.tumblr.com/) enough for beta'ing, bouncing ideas off, and supporting me through this entire journey! There's no way on Earth I could've accomplished any of this without her <3 She kept me going, motivated to work, and dammit, with this gal in my corner we almost made it!
> 
> I'm very excited to share this one. I (clearly) enjoyed writing it and hope you have fun reading! xoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ann's Notes:** I'm apologizing and giving everyone a warning ahead of time!
> 
> As I mentioned, this was initially my entry for the DHC. When I said I was close to finishing, I mean I was really, _really_ close...like, I have over half the chapters drafted up on AO3...and I don't want to lose them...
> 
> So that's why I'm posting this first chapter now.
> 
> _I don't have a time-frame on the next update._
> 
> What I would REALLY like to do is (officially) polish up the entire work and get on a posting schedule vs sporadic updates. PLUS, because this was meant to be a challenge/BB type fic, I don't want to draw out the time between new posts, I want to attempt to stay within the spirit of the challenge AKA post a chapter every couple days instead of weekly/every two weeks. 
> 
> That way, I'll have set a relaxed pace for myself (pumping out entire works with high word counts in one day for challenges is stressful to the max—authors, amiright?) and no one will have to wait an ungodly amount of time between updates :)
> 
> I know this is a huge teaser...but if you're interested, please subscribe! I'm gonna do my best to get on top of this in the near future and I should be rolling out chapters once everything's together! :D
> 
> This note will be removed once updates are active/the fic is complete. Thanks for your understanding in advance <3

****Castiel was playing the game.

Well, he was playing a part—_technically_, the Dodgers were playing the game, and he was in attendance, _at_ the game. He certainly wasn’t watching it as sports did little to pique his interest. His presence was required because his boyfriend was so damn _obsessed_.

Unfortunately, the media would notice his absence and have a field day—drumming up some make-believe drama and call it journalism with a headline of ‘Trouble in Paradise.’ Castiel’s obligations had tripled when he began dating Inias.  
  
The actor was constantly in the limelight and they needed to play to the Hollywood crowd. Like moonlighting—a second job—Cas wasn’t getting paid a dime for.

That's where an odd, openly gay double-standard came into play, Cas knew it and loathed it. Girlfriends weren’t technically required to show up on ‘game days’ with the guys. Instead, snapshots of girl-time brunches were paired with their partner's sports event picture the Celebrity Spotting columns in gossip rags with "his and her" captions.  
  
Due to the fact Cas’ image had never been defined by his sexuality—because he _looked like_ one of the boys—it would seem peculiar if he was missing. Whenever ‘flamboyant’ clashed with arena sports, Castiel had fucking no idea. He found himself in the middle of the mess—the unsaid logic if he chose _not to_ bro-ing it up would obviously mean he was with another man. That's how the media worked.  
  
The rules cast upon them were ludicrous and exhausting.

Facts, evidence, the truth didn’t matter: the headlines counted, it was about dirt.  
  
Cas should know, he was a journalist. Even if celebrity scandal wasn’t his genre, his antenna instinctually perked up wherever he saw the potential for a good story...

That’s how he knew how to bypass becoming a hot topic. Dammit, he fought to keep their public life mundane, boring and painfully uneventful when eyes were on them.

Knowing how other journalists could spin a story, hell, maybe even coworkers, had Cas enforcing a strict code of guidelines for their relationship, ensuring his personal life stayed that way.  
  
What made it difficult was how... _ public _ his boyfriend liked them to lead their lives.  
  
Like today.

Luckily, Castiel had accepted he’d be miserable ahead of time, he'd planned for this. He had a distraction in the form of his phone and it never left his palm. Armed with the knowledge of their seats, their company for the day and a google search, he’d probably looked up at the field a total of twice—and he was getting away it with.  
  
Castiel was effectively blocked in by the frenzy of bouncing lunatics Inias called friends.

It only took one, single step back to blend into the pandemonium and no one would notice him.

Plus, his distraction (the bullshit excuse given to his boyfriend) was legitimate. He easily blamed his occupation: citing rough draft work, deadlines, submission dates and high-stakes emails with his editor.  
  
The best part was this ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card could be used over and over again.  
  
He loved his job, and not only because he could implement it as a catch-all excuse.  
  
Freelance writing was competitive and exciting—he could work at his own pace—dishing out current, rapid-fire news stories or taking his time, fine-tuning the details on an in-depth and head-turning expose. He’d worked with and gained the respect of plenty of editors and publishing companies to know who needed what, _ and _ who paid the best rates.  
  
Having stuck it out (and flourishing), he retained independence, despite the countless lures to sign a contract.  
  
Sometimes it was easy, but there were others where it took everything in him not to break. The temptation of a steady check on those nights he could barely make rent felt like the difference between life and death. It was a miracle he hadn't perished from mercury poisoning, having bought canned tuna in bulk to save money on groceries.   
  
The voice in his head reminded him about The Catch, he muscled onward: his ‘steady check’ came with ‘steady, soul-sucking assignments.’  
  
He wasn’t built that way. Castiel lived for a wide berth of topic options, he needed to live with the sky as his limit. Once a signed columnist, you were locked in—making yourself a brand, stuck inside one arena—destined to write in the same voice, the same style, with the same topics your audience expected from you.  
  
Funneling all your time and energy to recycle old material with a new spin sounded like a special kind of Hell. While he couldn’t fault those journalist and he certainly didn’t believe them to be sell-outs, he couldn’t imagine how quickly they would _burn-out._  
  
Then again, there was a passionate select few who enjoyed their focus and thrived in that environment. It just wasn’t for Castiel.  
  
He wanted to decide, himself, if he needed quick, speedy money. _Then _ he’d go on autopilot: reaching out to a source, showing up to cover an event, hell, sitting down with a well-connected friend to see what the outside world was missing. Doling out lightening-fast news updates, political blurbs and the occasional tabloid story -it was mindless, decent work and it paid the bills until his next big piece came along.  
  
He lived by one rule, Castiel had promised himself: what he wrote had to be _ his _ choice.  
  
It was a code he tried to keep quiet. Jesus, the singular time he’d spoken of it, his inner circle laughed him out of the room, he never heard the end of it. To this day, it was normative for any one of them to cap off a sentence, calling him a brat or a diva.  
  
He’d learned an important lesson that day. His friends were assholes. Some more than others.  
  
Lo and behold, Hannah—the least dickish of his friends—happened to be covering the game for her publication.

The odds of it happening were slim, thank God they worked in Cas' favor because Hannah was his salvation.

Neither of them particularly enjoyed these assignments, but a press pass was a press pass. Cas helped her out by sending texts filled with colorful metaphors from their front row seats she could 'jot down for her article.' It passed the time, allowing his boyfriend to continue hollering obnoxiously with his crowd.  
  
That was just it—everyone in this stadium was packed body to body, the raucous energy flooding over the bleachers and through the crowd was camaraderie—Castiel's surprise was the wrong reaction in comparison.

When Inias had picked him up earlier, Castiel's eyes went round at the utterly hideous amount of red, white and blue.  
  
Cas had taken a step back, collected himself, before drably asking, “Did we miss July fourth?”

Clearly—since Castiel unknowingly committed a _sin—_he’d been corrected, “This is _Dodgers Blue! _ ”   
  
Jesusfuck, what had he gotten himself into? The tone, the words, the ghastly horror in his boyfriend triggered Cas to flip a switch—he officially tuned out. Everything.

On a normal day, his boyfriend was decently charming. You’d assume he was well-educated, intelligent and kind. In Hollywood, looks could be deceiving. That outer shell was another part played, the character he fell into: a result of frequent type-casting from all his movie roles.  
  
He was an actor. Through and through.

Of course, he had positive qualities or else Castiel wouldn’t be wasting his time. That particular list was very different than the public would've thought. Cas would describe him as outgoing, adventurous, dynamite in the sack. Yet, shallow, conceited and rather…well, slow. 

Going into this, he knew their outing would highlight those facets he tolerated, not those he celebrated. Castiel assumed he’d been mentally prepared, yet it seemed Inias still had what it took to surprise him. 

After they departed, his boyfriend rolled through West Hollywood in his Escalade to pick up three more of his friends. Ever the gentlemen, their greeting involved cracking open beer cans once inside the car. With the windows tinted and Inias' overconfidence, why should he worry?

As much as Castiel wished to partake, it would take a bottle of vodka to endure through the game. Not a couple measly beers.

Christ! The man's friends were nightmares!

They weren’t the usual cheering fans, getting revved up and excited before the game. They were loud-mouthed, rowdy and rude, sloshing foam over the other VIPs who had the misfortune of sitting next to them without regard.

Cas’ eyes would briefly leave his phone to glance at those poor fans, glaring back at them in sheer disgust.

These people were casualties. Caught in the crossfire of these half-drunk, half-stoned blockheads. When they got back—or rather, when Inias was sober—Cas needed to have a little chat with him.

While they hadn’t been together long, it was long enough for him to freely speak his mind. And luckily, Inias was receptive. He tried his best to listen, to fix the small behaviors, he really did—Cas gave him credit. He couldn’t help he was flawed to begin with.

Deep down, there _ was _ an honest kindness and that was the main reason Cas hadn’t ended it yet. And the sex. Okay, _ mostly _ the sex.

The ‘ping’ing notification drew his focus, seeing Hannah had texted him: _It‘s the seventh-inning stretch! You’ve reached the halfway point! Keep your chin up_

Oh. Is that what they called it? It wasn’t ‘half-time?’

That would explain why so many of the group was dispersing and fanning out to rest their voices and, well..._stretch_.

He had no idea half had ended, or seven-somethings of it, Castiel was clueless, hell, he didn’t even know the score. All he knew was the overpowering smell of sweating bodies and stale booze encapsulating him. Maybe as they spread out, the smell would clear, it was disgusting…

Castiel shook his head with a fond grin and sent back: _You’ve kept me sane. Don’t you dare go dark on me_

HANNAH  
_Promise. You’ll be fine, don’t worry_

Little did either of them know, those would be her famous last words.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ah! This is so awesome, I can’t believe you’ve had season tickets and never told me!” Jo was bouncing up and down, balancing her fourth beer in one hand and her third hot dog in the other. She leaned forward, shouting two seats down, “Sam! Was I the only one he kept this secret from?!”

“I’m right here!” Dean was stuck in the middle, his attention darting between his brother and sister, sandwiching him in. “It’s a job perk, okay? The reason you didn’t know, is ‘cause your filthy little mitts would gobble up my home games!”

Jo’s mouth twitched at the same time her eyes twinkled. “Damn right. They’re all mine from now on.” 

Yep, _ that _ was Jo throwing down the gauntlet—a challenge locking her and Dean in a fierce stare down. The battle intensified with aggressively mowing down their hot dogs. After all, who could stuff the most food in their mouth led them closer to victory, right?  
  
They were buzzed! Chomping, glaring and petulantly refusing to wipe away the condiments dripping down their chins seemed reasonable.

Sam groaned, slumping down as the odd man out, babysitting a pair of idiots. His ass hurt and as Jo and Dean continued, all he could think about was this stupid seat. He shifted around, a worthless, failed attempt to get comfortable in his short, rock-solid chair.

Up until now, they’d been so caught up in the game Dean and Jo hadn’t gotten the chance to bicker. The flask Jo smuggled into the stadium, plus to the over-priced beers, had finally led them back to where they always ended up. In a warped version of couple’s therapy.

Their section was both a blessing and a curse.  
  
The Dugout Club landed them front and center—smackdab in the middle of the action.  
  
Earlier in the third inning, Dean and Jo nearly took each other out (barely missing other fans), while lunging to catch a foul ball. Immediately following, they’d gotten texts from friends who’d told them their savagery had been caught on TV, quoting the commentary airing with the replay.  
  
_ That _ had been a wake-up call. Not only were cameras moving everywhere, at any time, but a stationary one was always fixed within close proximity.  
  
The last thing they needed was to make a scene. Jo’s contraband needed to be used with discretion (in large amounts when the coast was clear) and Dean’s impulsiveness needed to be tempered down.  
  
In actuality, the Dugout Seat’s worked in Sam’s favor: he didn’t have the bad habits of his siblings. While he’d swap in a bench, he appreciated the leg room. And after the foul ball incident, he implemented a plan: whenever the camera panned in their direction, he’d nonchalantly tilt towards the couple on his right.  
  
That way from the long view, he’d appear apart of the _ other _group. Sam refused to be seen or associated with these idiots on TV again.

After having covertly studying that pair—noticing how astronomically expensive the rock on her finger was—Sam’s interest was captured. He wanted to know exactly what it took to land a spot here, which led to him casing out their company through the course of the game.  
  
What he found was actually kind of fascinating.  
  
He could smell money a mile away, at least the pair nearby weren’t flaunting it. Others from behind were literally wearing it on their sleeves. Some clad in a variety of brand-new designer sportswear with all the gold and diamonds they could carry, other women dressed in runway fashions better suited for the Kentucky Derby.  
  
There were faces he recognized—some were big names, others he couldn’t link, but knew there were ‘somebody.’ Celebrities, CEOs, politicians, and other infamies who donned sunglasses and hats to conceal their identities. He wondered what percentage was guests. Dates. Family.  
  
Then there were the giveaway winners, the gifts, the sweepstakes champions, proudly wearing their passes from radio stations they’d tirelessly phoned day and night before being announced the winners, still celebrating, crying on and off.  
  
The others, the ones who looked like regular people kept Sam guessing. Hell, those other people were probably guessing why the three of them had the best seats in the house. What made them so important that they were seated in front of Kim and Kanye?  
  
During Sam’s guessing game he noticed no matter how distinct the parties, most were as rowdy and enthusiastic as the rest of the stadium.  
  
One group, in particular, put the rest of the crowd to shame. Not only were they in the same section, but a mere few rows over.  
  
Sam dubbed that group his ‘insurance policy.’ He didn’t want to jinx it, but Dean was decently behaved out in public (Jo, not so much), and even if he got in a mood: those guys were enough hell-on-wheels to block out _ anything _his family could possibly fuss over.

Still, insurance could only cover so much—he’d rather diffuse this than risk it. 

Finally deciding to end their match, Sam began, “You know, Jo—” but stopped in his tracks.

When Jo and Dean whipped around towards him, the previous blobs ketchup and mustard on their chins was just enough to share—Sam’s jeans now accented with a splash of red and yellow from Dean, Dean oblivious to Jo’s drip onto his shoe.  
  
After shoving napkins at the friggin _children_, and suffering to contain his outrage (he was working so hard!), Sam tried again.

“Dean’s had these tickets ever since he was recruited for the job _years_ ago.” Yes, she was poised to pounce, but Sam knew Jo could be talked down with the truth.  
  
Plus, she wasn’t her normal, intimidating self with a napkin stuck on her face.  
  
“He’s been giving the tickets to his patients. Or donors.” He addressed his brother directly, “Dean—this is one of the first times _ you_, yourself, have gone to a game? Right?”

Sam already knew he was right.

“I’ve been to games! So many games, I—” he argued in protest, but once a piercing bitchface stopped him cold, Dean was forced to admit, “But...okay, yeah. First time using the VIP seats, or whatever…”  
  
While tried to play it off as nothing, Sam’s plan worked: Jo instantly lost her fire.   
  
Except, it wasn’t Dean’s plan to win a fight because Sam wanted to play referee! Jo, all ashamed and awkward—hell no, that’s not how he liked his sister!  
  
With a sharp elbow to the side, he lured her in again, taunting, “Now, if you make a nice, fat donation to our Cancer Center? The tickets are all yours! Cough up the money, Jo—I know you’ve got that savings account. Open that sucker up and I’ll hand ‘em over.”

_ And _she was back!

“Glad you’re spoiling yourself a little, _ Doctor_. With all your hard work saving lives, you’ve earned a treat!” Egging him on with a sing-song melody in her voice, Jo did the one thing that always got under his skin: calling him ‘Doctor.’

Sam saw what was unfolding plain as day, and he leaned over to Jo. “Am I going to have to separate you two?”

“No. We’ll behave.” With a shared look of mischief between Jo and Dean (they’d always had an unspoken communication comparable to damn twins) Dean added, “We’ll behave, _if_ you get us more hot dogs and beer…”

“Children. I’m babysitting goddamn _children…_”

Dean tossed back his beer and sighed in contentment. “Sucks for you. Being born into this family, huh?”

“Such a poor baby. Just the luck of the draw,” Jo cooed back, but not before reaching behind Dean and flicking Sam in the ear.

His flinch must have satisfied her, because she finally sat back in her seat with a smile. Or maybe, just like Dean, the game starting up again caught her attention. Either way, everything resolved—just like that—things reverted back to the way they were.

Carefree. Happy. Enjoying a day together, as a family, at Dodgers Stadium.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The oddest thing happened.

During the break, Cas finally took the time to get off his feet. To relax, unworriedly, about keeping up his energy and face for the public, knowing anything being shown on television was an open invitation for commentary.  
  
While the game was in play he knew the drill: between batters or changeovers, the TV reporters panned back and zoomed in on the audience at random, in search of a dynamic background. His boyfriend’s companions certainly fit the bill and Castiel would be in that footage, needing to construct a facade in place of his boredom.  
  
During a break in the game, he had a reprieve. They would recap without players to film the field. Companies would pay top dollar to run their ads.  
  
Most importantly, this allowed him to take in a deep breath and pull out a carefully stored flask.

Without Inias to see, he didn’t have to share. The entire group had sped off to the VIP bar to slam beers like frat boys at a kegger. Cas would gladly gulp down his hidden whiskey alone as the stench around him cleared.

Once the game began, the men trampled over each other to get back—showing off their practiced talents balancing as many plastic cups as they could carry—the madness roared to life.

Just like that, Cas had to work back into the mindset of being a better caliber actor than his boyfriend.  
  
And it looked like his previous luck had run out.  
  
For some reason, Inias grabbed him around the waist with the teasing words, “Hey, work can wait, let’s enjoy ourselves!” pulling him up front to join in the festivities, and he was forced to tuck his phone away.

_ Shit—_he’d blocked off any escape route, knowing Cas couldn’t object! It felt like a power play, and while Inias was an performer, Castiel _didn’t_ play well as oblivious arm candy, he didn’t accept blatant PDA—why was he pulling this shit?

They’d talked about this, he damn well where the boundaries laid: Cas only tagged along at his request, not because he wanted to. And if he wasn’t going to be ‘enjoying himself’—as he knew already—once he was sober, he was getting reamed out. Inias had to be wasted to think it was peachy to use him as a prop.  
  
Castiel was forced to deal with it until then. It was a long time to wait.

At the same time Cas prayed his knee-jerk reaction wasn’t glaringly sharp in contrast to Inias' jubilant embrace, Inias realized his carefree way of welcoming him into the game may’ve been too hasty.  
  
In fact, Inias lowered his boisterous, frenetic energy to meet Cas’. Maybe they could meet in the middle.

There it was. That natural kindness again, no matter how smashed he was, compassion would still end up peaking through. The man never operated on rationality. Castiel realized his motive was as simple as including him, trying to give Cas the same delight he was experiencing. Actively wanting him to be present, part of it, beside him...  
  
Yes. All right, he could appreciate that. Maybe he wouldn’t admonish him too severely. It was actually sweet…

But then, when Inias was handing him one of his two beers and he’d finally accepted the current circumstance, Cas’ sixth sense perked up—there was something different going on underneath his surface.

Of course, Inias was unsteady, making the drink slosh over, drenching Cas’ hand. Yes, he was tanked. Except…there was something else.

Snatching the quickly-emptying drink before he ended up wearing it, Cas realized his restlessness was actually distraction. For all his allegiance, he wasn’t watching the field either. Okay, this had to be big.

If Inias focus wasn’t on the game, what the hell was he looking at? In an attempt to find out, Cas followed the angle of his chin, the destination of his flickering gaze and—

Oh. _Wonderful_.

He knew there would be paparazzi, but it was downright _tacky_ to interview his boyfriend during his free time. They dared to step on location while another crew was being paid to work, no less. When the press acted with such disrespect it gave them all a bad name. Whoever had the balls to approach them was going to hear about it!

“This is ridiculous. I'll handle it,” Cas assured him. While the crew (yes, _crew_! It was more than one lone cameraman with a death wish!) boldly zoned on, Cas scanned for logos.  
  
There was nothing delicate when he charged. Knowing he could be damn effective, he used intimidation when pushing them back, crowding them to the sidelines. “Who the hell do you work for? Star? In Touch? Fuckin’ _Fox News_?”

He seized the boom pole, knocking it down as subtly as possible while wanting to snap it. “From one journalist to another, this is an inappropriate time to fish for a story. If you insist on invading people’s personal lives, keep your distance, or—”  
  
Hearing his boyfriend insist from behind, “It’s okay, babe, I’ve got a good story for him,” was both frustrating as it was confusing (he'd followed him over?) when he grabbed Cas’ hand.

What the hell? He was advocating for him!  
  
Cas didn’t get involved with movie deals, why should he interfere when Cas dealt with the press? Was it, again, because he was a foolish drunk? Just when Cas thought they were on the same page, Inias decided (again) rules didn't apply. Taking actions that were firmly anchored in the ‘Do Not’ column of their relationship.  
  
He ground his teeth and refused to give in to the persistent tug, no, not yet.  
  
Was he trying to rack up a new record? Was he trying to push buttons—and for what possible purpose? One thing was certain: Castiel was tired, and he was finished being well-behaved today.

Cemented in staring down the camera crew, he ordered, “You better pray I don’t find out what network you’re with!”

As he weighed the options of dismissal or bodily harm, something else very, _very_ unexpected happened.

The, “Hey, Cas,” behind him grated more than usual. The quality was off—wrong—within the words.

They were…well, _everywhere_. Booming, echoing, surrounding him completely—projecting out from the loudspeakers.

An explosion of applause, cheering, and other odd noises erupted from the crowd.  
  
What the hell—?

—Why wasn’t the camera crew leaving? Why his hand being tugged harder? Why was the sound guy gesturing backwards, making Cas want to punch him in the fucking face—?!

One yank—the brute-force kind—forced Cas to spin back—Inias grinning like a loon.

“I’m protecting you, your privacy,” Castiel hissed, but he wasn’t being heard, nothing was sinking in.

“Hey—” This continual attempt silencing him was getting old, fast, Inias had to know it wouldn’t end well... “Check it out, gorgeous!”

“What, is your team up?” he scoffed sarcastically.  
  
As the field fell quiet, Cas realized his own voice was amplified. Ten fold. Desperate for answers, Cas’ attention darted where he’d been pointed to—the scoreboard. 

On the scoreboard, up on that huge, massive jumbo screen, were the words: “_Casstille—Will You Marry Me_?”

Everything crashed down.

The camera crew’s persistence. His boyfriend’s finicky behavior. The volume—they mic’d Inias during the break—that same mic was now picking up Cas' words—!

This was a nightmare.

He whipped back around to see Inias down on one knee, the audience ‘_ooo_’ing and ‘_aww_’ing, waiting on bated breath. While presenting a ring, he echoed the gaudy, block letters, “Castiel Krushnic, will you marry me?” and Cas knew by the look on his face—

The sad part was...maybe he loved him, but what shone on bent knee beneath him: it was fake—_that _smile was absolutely for the cameras.  
  
There wasn't a doubt in Cas' mind that Inias had even requested the positioning of the crew (he always rambled on and on about 'his good side') and guess which one the lenses was focused on?

He was an idiot, he didn’t think or use his brain—already riled up, weary and war-torn from the day and all the bullshit he’d trudged through—this may have been his breaking point.

Cas _should’ve_ said ’yes’ for the cameras. He should have given everyone what they wanted: the happy ending. A picture-perfect feel-good moment, and everyone would ride out that high for the rest of the game.  
  
Then, once they were away from the spotlight, they would handle their affairs in private. Like a mature adult.

Castiel unleashed the bitter snarl of, “Learn how to spell my fucking name!“ ignoring the crowd’s shocked gasp.

Only after he’d furiously sent the box flying out onto the field with a well-aimed slapped, did he realized— 

The world was watching. Literally.  
  
The game was live and they were surrounded by cameras.

Everything and everyone had frozen, it felt like the planet stopped turning—  
  
—the only movement was the engagement ring’s momentum, holding a captive audience as it continued spinning and rolling, kicking up dust.

It, too, was slowing down. What would happen when the damn thing finally came to rest in the field?  
  
That audience would quickly return—and Cas’ life couldn’t cut to commercial!

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the next batter never stepped up to the plate and the other players fell into an easy stance at the bases—opposing team included—confusion sparked through the stadium. The second the jumbotron abandoned the field and scanned the crowd, leaving room to wonder if there was a malfunction. Sam, Jo and Dean shared a quizzical stare  
  
That was, until the music started—jump-starting Jo’s excited bouncing.  
  
"Holy shit!" She eagerly smacked both Dean and Sam’s thighs, hard enough to sting. “You know what this is, right?!”

Both men’s eyes were glued with dread, with one thing on their mind: they sure as fuck didn’t want to be the ones who ended up on TV!

It was Sam who anxiously guessed, “Is this the kiss cam?” then cracked a grin when adding the devious thought, “Careful, Dean. It could land on you and Jo.”

“Ew!” “Gross!” both spat at the same time, physically recoiling from one another and accidentally knocking into the people on opposite sides of them in the process.  
  
Lucky for Dean, it was Sam. Jo awkwardly bumped into a stranger and quickly muttered an apology before rebounding and regaining her bravado.

“No, no, that’s not it! This'll be _much_ better! You gotta think bigger!” That kind of mischief was dangerous, and while she looked around, it grew. “Someone is in for the surprise of their life. Man, they’ve gotta be _ huge _Dodgers fanatics to spring the question this way…”

The words were cryptic, but Dean knew her tone and that low whistle. Reading Jo was his day job, and the way she selected her phrasing, refusing to tell them outright, was enough to read between the lines. There was one more tell...

No matter how vehemently she denied it: Jo was a hopeless romantic.

Her being gooey and whimsical? _ Totally _gave it away and Dean was in.

“Oh, this is gonna be good!” Dean clapped and rubbed his hands together, “I knew there was a reason I picked today’s game! Seeing some jackass saps light up the screen in person? Can’t wait to make fun of ‘em.”

Sam…still wasn’t getting it.

Except, his height gave him an advantage. Even if he didn’t know _ what _ he was seeing, he could see _ something _ go down, relaying, “There’s two camera crews, guys. One’s panning the stadium and the other is headed this way. Like, _ our _way.”

“What?!” Jo and Dean really should’ve been born twins—they acted in unison, diving down to the same level of dumb, shouting and moving instead of thinking. Soon, they began talking on top of each other, overwhelming Sam with demands:

“How close are they?” “What do you mean, _ two camera crews? _” “Who are they focused on? Is it someone next to us?!” “I swear, it better not be that couple in the Hawaiian shirts!” “Sam, it’s not the Hawaiian couple, is it?!”

“Guys! _ Calm down! _” Sam whipped back around, fighting the urge to shake them. “Why should I tell you anything! You won’t even fill me in on what the hell is happening!”

“Dude!” This time Jo’s punch left a bruise. “Someone is gonna propose!”

Sam’s eyes doubled, the throbbing ache not even registering.

“Hey, quid pro quo,” Dean picked up where Jo left off and hastened the pace, harassment mode amplified. “Why do you look like that?”

She tacked on a curious, “You‘re our eyes, Sammy! If the crew is already in the dug-out seats, why isn’t it on the big screen yet?”

“They‘re, uh, talking to someone from that plastered, obnoxious group we saw earlier, the one with the celebrity guy. Whatever’s happening is going down with someone in that actor’s crew and…” Sam chewed his lip, rising to his toes and deciding, “I guess it'd be pretty hard to cut to a good angle while the dude is trying to take them out. He’s, like…fighting them off. And winning.”

“Oh. Wow.”

At that point, not one of the three gave a rat’s ass about being sly—the Winchesters fell into different positions of leaning, crouching, and shameless jumping up to sneak a peek—to get even a passing glimpse of the action because this was _too good!_

“_This_ is why surprises suck!” Dean slung his arm around Jo. “You never know when someone is gonna kick the messenger’s ass!”

“Still fighting…” Sam updated with a chuckle. "I wouldn't wanna be the crew. This guy could do some damage."

And that’s when the image on the screen finally changed. All their heads swung around to see what came next. Due to their seating, their heads-up of a preview in knowing _exactly_ how unsuspecting the guy was, they saw the camera captured surprise in its purest form.  
  
No one could keep a secret these days. Real moments, especially caught on film, were rare if not impossible to come by. 

The footage wasn’t the close-up they’d wanted, not yet. It was a long panoramic view, the zoomed-in profile of two men from across the way.

One (the famous dude) had grabbed hold of the other guy’s wrist, his voice crisply pouring out through the speakers, “Hey, Cas,” while they handily cropped the altercation out of frame.

‘Cas’ was absolutely, totally and completely unaware—he almost...bristled?—Sam could see him continuing to engage with the other camera crew. Although—

Part of him felt the change in the atmosphere.  
  
_ Damn_, if he only knew how much the crowd eating up every bit! The cheers, applause were barely contained in wait—if only there was some kind of chant to get his attention! Something catchy, short and sweet: Jo would be the first to start it.

The guy tried again, pulling him harder, coaxing a sweet, “Hey, check it out, gorgeous!”

When the man finally spun back, he snipped, “What, is your team up?” completely missing what was on the scoreboard!

Abso-fucking-lutely oblivious to the whole ‘Marry Me’ thing that flashed bright enough to color the stands and cast a shadow over the field.

The roar of applause echoed through the stadium, as Dean coughed into his fist, “_Damn_, son!”

After all the hassle, they were finally able to cut to the second camera crew just in time to capture the moment Cas’ eyes scanned the marriage proposal. Memorializing those sacred seconds when he finally realized _ what was happening_. The kind of thing you want to show your kids, your grand kids, the Love Conquers All stories that everyone will be sharing on Facebook tomorrow.

Jo was doing that rarely-seen, tell-anyone-and-I’ll-kill-you thing where she’d sway a little and sigh happily. “There we go. Time for a happily ever after!”

Everyone was entranced, feeling as though they were part of their love story. Getting a secret glimpse into a fairy-tale romance as Inias, Mr-fucking-Hollywood, fell to his knees and pulled out a ring for his equally-gorgeous boyfriend.

It wasn’t fair how picture-perfect and almost tear-jerking his sweet, “Castiel Krushnic, will you marry me?” vibrated over the loudspeakers and reverberated against their chests.

The weight of that moment was a reminder for everyone to hold their breath, giddy in anticipation over the next move.

“A spin?” Jo whispered—“a dip,” Sam bet, instead—“nah,” Dean insisted, “they’ll stay classy for the magaz—”

They‘d zoomed into such a tight shot of the couple—

The words “Learn how to spell my fucking name!” sent a screech of feedback from the mics, the audience viscerally shivered and recoiled from the venom, the frustration steaming from Cas’ face.

Everyone silently watch as the rejection unfolded in stunned silence—Castiel fucking _punted_ that ring away, back to Neverland—

You could hear a pin drop in the always-rowdy, punch-drunk stadium.

Jo doubled over and grabbed her knees, masking the laughter that was two seconds away from bursting, refusing to be the one who made a peep in the aftermath.

A breathless, “Oh…my…God…that‘s, uh…a deal-breaker…” was all Sam managed, while the time stretched on—

But that was the thing.

The time stretching on.

The cameras weren’t pulling away. It was like they were waiting for one of them to break down instead of cutting back to the game!  
  
Dean knew it, and it pissed him off—people’s lives weren’t ‘entertainment,’ and no one had to be humiliated for ‘a good show!’  
  
A light bulb flashed for Dean: the complete and total surprise, the fight with the camera crew, the literal wrangling it took to make this moment unfold in the first place.

It was clear, _painfully_ fucking _obvious_, as to why the guy was shocked—no one should be used as a publicity move! And ‘Cas’ had every right to feel that way!

They were here to watch a game.  
  
Not celebrate the victory of another actor looking to make more headlines to build his fame empire. Especially with the plot twist, it hurt, watching two people’s lives spin out, ready to take very different turns, and—

Before Dean knew it, he was charging in the direction of the cameras.

Sam’s hand grazed Dean’s bicep in a desperate attempt to haul him back, hissing, “Dean! What the hell are you doing?!” but he wasn’t turning around.

“Hey!“ Jo was in the background, too—and after a false start, she shrieked a little louder and unhinged, “You’re fucking _ insane_!”

But Dean was gone.  
  
All they could do was gape when Dean disappeared _away_ from their sights and _onto_ the jumbotron.

Sam repeated Jo‘s words, in horrified solidarity— “He _is_ fucking insane…”


End file.
